This is where I find your memory: the spot where skin meets, softly traces another’s outline as it recognizes itself. A place in this old house holds pictures I once did, condensed to small parts.

You talked as your mouth made shapes. No sounds just pictures I found to go with shapes. I saw that girl collapse in your living room, saw parts of me moving as you did.

I pretended to move with you. Not your words but mine are now space bars between us.